


How to Sleep with Your Enemy in One Semester

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Humor, Idiots who don't know they're in love, M/M, Office Sex, Professor John Watson, Professor Sherlock Holmes, Rivalry, john’s beard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 22:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15034229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: Visiting professors John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are longtime academic rivals — and now unwilling office mates — at a prestigious American university. When their tense arguments give way to an undercurrent of mutual attraction, their war of wits turns into something more personal — until it goes off course. A party, a phone number, and deserted office at night might just bring them back together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Cómo dormir con tu enemigo en un semestre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18753271) by [PrinceBSlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceBSlocked/pseuds/PrinceBSlocked)



> A few notes about U.S. academics that may be helpful if you’re unfamiliar with the system: Many universities operate on a two-term schedule -- the fall semester (roughly August to December) and the spring semester (roughly January through May) with a four or five week winter break in between. Universities are divided into colleges (such as law, medicine, liberal arts), and colleges are further divided into departments, schools, and divisions. The leader of a college is called a dean, and the leader of a department is called the chair or head. There really are visiting professors who come to teach and conduct research. And it’s not unusual to run across giant egos, intense politics, and tight budgets. The university in this story is completely made up.

_The photos that prompted this fic:_

__   


The hallway was quiet as John unlocked the door of his office. It was morning, still early enough that the building was empty, the campus barely stirring except for a few committed joggers and dog walkers.

The heavy wooden door swung open with a creak, and John took a moment to examine his new work space. Two battered wooden desks with mismatched chairs, two dented file cabinets, a coat rack, sagging shelves, a small table holding a coffee maker and four odd mugs, one window overlooking the leafy courtyard, and an ancient steam radiator that would probably hiss and clang all winter. Apparently visiting faculty didn’t rank high enough to be assigned posh offices.

He sighed and set his briefcase down on the nearest desk, wondering if he had made a wise decision agreeing to teach forensic science for a year at this American university. Although the university was prestigious, his pay wasn’t spectacular. But the promise of change, of something novel, had been enticing. An old friend from his own university days had looked him up, luring him to the States with a light teaching load and paid housing, casually mentioning that New York City and the Atlantic Coast were just short train rides away, perfect for weekend jaunts.

John had finally capitulated, temporarily trading his simple flat near Oxford for an unremarkable condo close to campus. He’d been in town for a week, pushing through jet lag to meet the department head, get his university credentials in order, locate the grocery store, and purchase a used bicycle for transportation. Classes started in eight days and he was now ready to set up his office.

He scratched his short beard, still waking up, wishing he’d stopped for a coffee on the way in. Never mind. He could always take a break later. He loosened his tie and booted up the desktop computer, then sat in the worn chair, adjusting the height and back tension to his satisfaction. He slipped on his reading glasses, logged in with his university ID, and began setting up the online components of the course he’d be teaching during the fall semester.

John was deep into his work when a sharp rapping on the door startled him.

“Look at you, already diving in. You always were an overachiever.”

John smiled, glad to see the ruddy face of his old friend Mike Stamford. It was Mike who had extended the invitation to come teach. He’d moved to the States from England a decade ago and they’d kept in touch, occasionally seeing each other at conferences. Apart from gaining a bit of weight, Mike looked much the same as he had years ago when they were both young medical students at St. Bart’s. A lot of history had passed since those days, but Mike was as cheerful as ever.

“Getting settled in alright?” Mike asked, seating himself on the edge of the desk.

“Yeah, so far, so good.”

“Sorry the office isn’t exactly luxurious,” Mike apologized. “You think they’d treat visiting scholars a little better. I tried to get you space over in the new building, but you know how it goes. Politics.”

“It’s okay. This will be fine.”

“It’s got to be better than your old army digs, I reckon,” Mike joked, trying to make the best of the situation.

“Yeah.” John forced a grin. He didn’t enjoy talking about that part of his life. “Better than Afghanistan.” He changed the subject. “I was wondering if I could have the other desk removed to make some more space.”

“Er, about that.” Mike smoothed his striped tie, looking uncomfortable. “One of the regular professors is taking a sabbatical this year, so we’re a little shorthanded. We brought in another visiting faculty member to help cover the load.”

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Let me guess. I’m sharing this office with them.”

Mike looked sheepish. “Um, yeah. I was hoping there would be space for him down the hall, but, you know…”

“Politics,” John finished drily. He sighed inwardly, already planning to work from home as much as possible. He’d had his fill of living in close quarters, eating, sleeping, showering, and breathing with other soldiers round the clock. Once he’d left his career as an army doctor and transitioned into academia, he guarded his privacy, focusing his time on his research and writing.

“Who’s the other visiting prof?” John asked, resigned. “Anyone I know?”

Mike hesitated, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink. “I believe you’ve met.”

“Oh, we’ve met,” a deep voice drawled from the doorway.

John snapped his head toward the sound, his eyes narrowing when he recognized the lanky man standing calmly by the door, his bespoke suit and sharp face all angles and cheekbones and perfection. John hated him.

“Holmes,” John practically spat his name out. He stared accusingly at Mike, who cleared his throat and scrambled to his feet.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Mike laughed weakly. “Professor Holmes and Doctor Watson, two of the world’s top forensic experts in the same room… What a treat!”

John glared at Sherlock, who returned his gaze with a small smirk.

“Let me just say that the university is highly honored to have you both with us this year,” Mike rambled on. “Your courses are packed, there’s a waitlist a mile long… so exciting.”

John ignored Mike and kept glaring at Sherlock. “Still pestering Scotland Yard with your outlandish theories?”

Sherlock smiled condescendingly. “Still writing your little crime blog?”

“I was so impressed with both of your latest publications,” Mike interjected quickly, trying to avert a disaster. He nodded at John. “Your analysis of exit wound tissue damage,” he then nodded at Sherlock, “and your study of rare subtropical poisons — both fascinating. Such informative perspectives you each bring from your respective expertise in medicine and chemistry.”

“Thank you,” John said tersely, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“Now I know you two have a bit of a rivalry,” Mike continued diplomatically. “I mean, that argument you two had during the panel session at the Barcelona conference two years ago — who could forget that? I still see clips of that going around. Legendary.” Mike sighed fondly at the memory, not noticing the deadly glance John aimed at Sherlock. “Anyway, I think you’ll both bring much-needed energy to this department, stir things up, get students pumped up about science and criminology. You two are the best in the field! Now you’re here together—what an exciting opportunity for collaboration!”

Sherlock fixed Mike with a icy stare. “I prefer to work alone.”

“So do I,” John added darkly.

Mike’s smile fell as he looked back and forth between them. He gathered his dignity, then glanced at his watch. “I have another appointment. I’m sure you’ll work things out.” He walked to the door, then looked back once more. “Besides, you’ve both signed contracts. Unless you want to meet the university’s attorneys, I suggest you find a way to get along. Cheerio!” He waved and popped off down the hallway, leaving John alone with his nemesis.

Sherlock bloody Holmes, the pompous pretty boy who seemed to dog every step of his career, matching him paper for paper, presentation for presentation, accolade for accolade. They’d been advancing along the same trajectory for years, trading sharp criticisms and barbs through commentaries and journal editorials. Sherlock was brilliant but a loose canon, his approach to forensics seemingly cavalier, but always based on sound science with an irritating sprinkle of intuition or something akin to reading people’s minds. John’s own method was much more conventional, relying on solid data and evidence. He was methodical, Sherlock was a dramatic whirlwind. They were like oil and water.

The only advantage he had over Sherlock was his blog, which had gained a popularity that far outstripped Sherlock’s surprisingly dry website. Both he and Sherlock were frequently sought out as consultants and expert witnesses for high-profile crime cases. In addition to their academic research, both wrote about their case work for the public, but John knew the secret to success was writing for a general audience, avoiding jargon and explaining forensics in simple, approachable (and perhaps a bit sensationalistic) language.

But now his rival was in this very room, encroaching yet again on his territory.

“Why the hell are you here, Holmes?” John snarled, annoyed by Sherlock’s tight shirt, tailored suit, and carefully coiffed hair. Sherlock was well-known for his attention to style, but no one dared mock him for it, unless they wanted to risk verbal evisceration. There was also a rumor that he was an excellent boxer.

Sherlock sauntered into the office, taking his time to answer. “I heard New England is beautiful in the autumn. Thought I’d see for myself.” He placed his black leather satchel on the opposite desk, then wiped a finger across the wood, inspecting its cleanliness as he sat in the chair.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” John scoffed. “What, did you finally get kicked out of Cambridge?”

“No, not at all,” Sherlock replied mildly. “Stamford contacted me and I thought I could do with a change of scenery.” His blue eyes landed with a chill on John. “He neglected to mention that you’d be here.”

“Likewise.” They locked gazes, not blinking.

Sherlock finally looked away, appearing to be bored.

“Look,” John finally said, keeping his voice even. “We’re both stuck here, so why don’t we come to an agreement? I’ll take the office from 8 to noon, and you get it from 1 to 5.”

Sherlock shrugged. “And the noon hour?”

“Neutral zone.”

Sherlock put his feet on the desk. “What if I don’t trust you? What if you decide to steal my unpublished research while I’m gone?”

“For God’s sake, I’m not going to break into your computer.” John was offended, but couldn’t help but notice how Sherlock’s polished shoes gleamed in the light. The man had huge feet that still managed to look elegant on his long legs. It really wasn’t fair that one person could be so attractive yet so annoying.

“True, you’re not clever enough to hack it… Fine. We’ll split the time as you suggested, starting tomorrow.”

“Fine.” John turned back to his computer screen, irritated. He tried to work, but was distracted by the sound of Sherlock pulling items from his bag and arranging them on his desk. He hunched in his chair, attempting to block out Sherlock’s existence.

He tried to tune out the rapid-fire clacking of the keyboard as Sherlock typed, making him aware of his own slow hunt-and-peck style. Dammit, did Sherlock have to do everything better?

After an agonizing hour, John noticed Sherlock shutting down his computer and gathering his things. As he walked toward the door, the tense knots in John’s neck started to ease at the prospect of being alone again.

“Laterz!” Sherlock tossed his bag over his shoulder with a flourish and swanned down the hallway.

Finally alone, John exhaled. He shifted in his seat, but found he couldn’t concentrate. The faint scent of Sherlock’s cologne lingered in the air, the room suddenly too quiet, too empty.

John shook his head, clearing that nonsense from his mind. He had work to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, right, John. All that nonsense that gets you hot and bothered.


	2. Chapter 2

 

John adjusted the microphone on his lapel then glanced at his watch, trying to be subtle. Only ten more minutes to go, ten long minutes of sitting on the stage with six other faculty members answering questions from an auditorium full of students, some attentive, some bored, and some blatantly scrolling on their phones.

Sherlock was seated two chairs away from him. He looked equally bored, probably counting the seconds until the Q&A session was over. It was supposed to help spark students’ interest in forensic research and career paths, but at one thirty in the afternoon, most were thinking about their next coffee or nap.

Mike, who was serving as the moderator, asked for another question from the audience.

A student stepped up to the microphone that was placed in the center aisle. “Yeah, hi, I have a question for Professor Holmes.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to the student.

“So, like, the case called The Ghost Bride—”

“I never called it that.”

The student blinked, unsure. “But Doctor Watson did.”

Sherlock shot a glare at John.

“Go ahead with your question,” John prompted, eager to see where this was going.

“So, the case where the lady, like, was dead, but she came back as a ghost and shot her husband? Professor Holmes originally said it had to be, like, other people dressed up as her using mirrors and stuff to look like ghosts, and that one of them gunned the dude down.”

John nodded along as best he could, cringing at the student’s butchered retelling of the story.

Sherlock glowered at the student. “What is your question?” he asked imperiously.

“I guess my question is, like, when did you figure out you were totally wrong?”

Sherlock bristled. “My theory was quite sound. Clearly, there are no such things as ghosts. The only reasonable explanation involved an elaborate scheme perpetrated by a group of individuals united by—”

“It was twins,” John interrupted. “As I proposed very early on in the case.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock. “Her long-lost sister took revenge on the husband, who wasn’t a very nice man, on behalf of her identical twin sister. A DNA test provided the evidence.”

Murmurs ran through the room and John glanced triumphantly at Sherlock.

“Professor Holmes has a pet theory that the solution to a crime is never twins,” John continued. “Obviously, that’s just not true.”

Sherlock sat forward in his chair, agitated. “In the general population, the odds of having identical twins is approximately 1 in 250 births,” Sherlock shot back, the volume of his voice rising, causing the audience to look up from their phones. “The odds of identical twins going on to commit a serious crime is staggeringly low. But whenever there’s a case where a person is allegedly in two places at one time, Doctor Watson here loves to trot out his beloved twin theory.”

“And I was right.”

“Jesus, one time!” Sherlock shouted in exasperation. “It’ll never happen again.”

Ripples of excitement ran through the auditorium, students flicking their phones to video mode.

Mike sat up and cleared his throat loudly. “Well, I think we’re almost out of time--”

But John wasn’t done yet, leaning forward to address Sherlock directly. “Statistically speaking, it’s a possibility.”

“Possibility and probability are two very different things. You ought to remember that.”

“And you ought to remember Occam's Razor: the simplest answer is often correct.”

“That’s an egregious oversimplification,” Sherlock countered. “But then, that’s your blog in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

There was an audible gasp from the audience.

“Okay!” Mike jumped to his feet. “We’re definitely out of time. Let’s thank our guests for sharing their insights with us today!”

Ignoring the explosion of applause, John locked eyes with Sherlock, wanting to punch him right in his pretty face, wrestle him to the ground, pin his sinewy, writhing body to the ground, overpowering him -- he stopped, the image pumping more unneeded adrenaline into his already stressed system.

As they exited the stage, John refused to look at Sherlock, deciding he shouldn’t tempt fate. Mike jogged up to both of them. “That was just getting interesting,” he joked. “Hope that doesn’t spill over into tonight’s festivities.”

John glanced at Mike, annoyed. “What do you mean?”

“The social at the dean’s house,” Mike replied. “All hands on deck.”

“Chit chat and mingling,” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Should be delightful.”

“Shit.” John squeezed his eyes shut. He’d almost forgotten. God, he dreaded parties. And he dreaded seeing Sherlock even more.

 

*****************

John clutched a wine glass, a smile plastered on his face as Mike introduced him to dozens of people he would never remember. He finally escaped to a corner near the kitchen, swallowing down the remainder of the Cabernet in his glass.

“This wine is from a box.” Sherlock appeared at his elbow, squinting at the red liquid in his own glass.

“It’s alcohol. It’s good enough,” John muttered, grabbing another glass as a caterer floated by. He pushed the image of sitting atop Sherlock’s chest out of his mind, fragments of a fantasized wrestling match tormenting him all afternoon. The urge to confront Sherlock physically had never been stronger, and John knew it was stupid, nothing but an immature, inappropriate reaction to a building frustration. He breathed in through his nose, then out. Calm, be calm...

Sherlock took a tentative sip and made a small face of displeasure. John glanced at him, noticing he had changed into a different suit, this one dark blue with a light blue shirt underneath, no tie. He never wore ties. He just had to show off that long neck, didn’t he?

“The beard’s new,” Sherlock commented while keeping his eyes on the crowd.

John’s hand reflexively went to his face. “Most people seem to like it.”

“They do, do they?” Sherlock murmured enigmatically. “You look older.”

“We’re all older,” John shot back. God, Sherlock was such a prick.

Just then Mike steered toward them, a stunning woman linked on his arm. “Ah, here you are. I’d like you to meet Irene Adler. She’s a professor of human sexuality studies.”

She held out her hand, her long nails painted a deep red. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I enjoy your blog, Doctor Watson.”

John shook her hand, surprised. “You read my blog?”

“Oh, yes. I particularly liked the case called ‘The Elephant in the Room.’” She turned to Sherlock. “And your website, The Science of Deduction. I was fascinated by the indices of tobacco ash and perfume.”

Sherlock took her hand and bowed slightly, seeming to puff a bit with pride.

“I’m flattered that you’re familiar with my work, Doctor Adler,” John nudged Sherlock aside, intrigued.

“Please, call me Irene.” She smiled graciously. “I like detective stories.” She flicked her eyes at Sherlock. “And detectives.”

“What are you current research interests?” Sherlock asked rotely, unmoved by her smokey glance.

“The dom-sub dynamic and, separately, what’s popularly known as the daddy kink.”

John choked on his wine as he swallowed, caught off guard by her answer.

She turned to him, amused. “Did I say something that struck a chord?”

“Um, no. I just — that’s very interesting.” He glanced at Sherlock, subconsciously stroking his beard. When he looked back at Irene, she was smiling mysteriously.

“Have you known each other long?” she asked.

“Several years,” Sherlock answered vaguely. “Academia is a small world, as you know.”

“Funny that you should both end up here at the same time.”

Mike raised his hand jovially. “I’m to blame for that.”

“Well done.” Irene patted Mike’s arm. She turned back to John and Sherlock. “I’m sure you two will have a productive year, working so closely together.”

“We’re not working together,” John hastened to clarify.

“We’re just sharing an office,” Sherlock added.

“Oh,” she shrugged innocently. “Maybe you’ll partner up this year, find a passion project you can both really sink your teeth into. Get those creative juices flowing.” Her lips parted slyly. “Coming together with the right person can be _sooo_ satisfying.”

John saw a wolvish expression cross her face, her words dripping with innuendo. Was she implying —? John suddenly felt his face and neck flush and he quickly excused himself. He walked out onto the back porch, breathing in the cool evening air. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

It was ridiculous, the suggestion that he and Sherlock would ever have some sort of sexual relationship. He couldn’t even stand the arrogant bastard. Sure, he was incredibly good looking and his voice was like dark honey and he was brilliant, but there was no way that they’d ever hook up, not in a million years. Every time they were within 10 feet of each other they bickered. He was not interested in Sherlock. It was laughable. Hilarious, really.

John chuckled to himself, embarrassed that Irene’s words had provoked him like this. He was just overreacting, probably still jet lagged. He turned to go back into the house, his eyes caught by the view through the window into the living room. Among all the guests, John could easily pick out Sherlock — his height, the graceful way he carried his trim frame, the contrast of dark hair against pale skin, his long throat and tapered fingers, tight arse…

John swallowed, a warmth spreading low in his groin, making him unable to tear his gaze from Sherlock. A terrible realization pinged in his brain.

_Shit, Irene was right. He didn’t want to fight Sherlock, he wanted to fuck him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom. There it is.


	3. Chapter 3

John managed to avoid talking to Sherlock for two weeks, spending as little time in the office as possible, sitting far away from him at meetings, barely nodding in recognition when forced within proximity of each other at obligatory social events. He didn’t want to interact with him, not wanting to stir up any more disturbingly primal thoughts.

It was incredibly confusing, this unexpected attraction to the man he usually thought of as his adversary. But when he was anywhere near him, he couldn’t help but sneak glances at Sherlock’s face as he talked, his handsome features animated, his graceful hands gesturing to emphasize a point. His voice was rich and seductive, sending delicious vibrations up and down John’s spine, his body long and lean...

His luck finally ran out on the weekend when he stopped into the office to print out a quiz for his class. John stood in the copy room, his mind wandering as he waited for the printer to collate and staple the papers. He didn’t see Sherlock reaching into the supply cabinet behind him until it was too late.

“John,” Sherlock greeted him neutrally, selecting several red pens and notepads before closing the cabinet door.

John nodded in acknowledgment, then turned back to the printer. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his neck.

“Pop quiz?” Sherlock asked after a long silence.

John had to turn around to answer. “Yeah, I enjoy seeing the look of terror on students’ faces when I hand these out.”

Sherlock smiled, making John’s pulse jump.

The printer stopped with a few clicks and John busied himself by gathering the warm papers into a stack. He turned around, intending to quickly slip past Sherlock in the small space, but he collided with him instead, their chests bumping, their faces swaying unnervingly close.

“Sorry,” John gasped, mortified.

Sherlock stepped back, his cheeks pink. “Sorry.”

John bolted from the copy room, stuffing the quizzes into his bag as he hurried down the stairs, swinging onto his bicycle he’d left propped against the building. He rode home quickly, his legs burning as he pedaled furiously uphill, his chest still tingling where it had made contact with Sherlock’s body.

 

*****************

The weather steadily turned cooler, the leaves changing from greens and yellows to golds and burgundies. The days grew shorter, the sun setting before John returned home in the evenings, the nights chilly.

He concentrated on work, his schedule full with teaching, revising manuscripts, and editing a chapter for an upcoming textbook he was contributing to. He ran into Sherlock occasionally, managing to act normally. At least he hoped he did.

Suddenly it was November, a few days before classes dismissed for Thanksgiving break. Although John didn’t really understand the holiday, he was looking forward to a quiet week off.

Now he sat in a cramped conference room, the monthly faculty meeting droning on. John pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing the chair of the department would wrap up her overly detailed budget report. Sherlock was seated across the room, his eyes closed, possibly sleeping.

Once the meeting was adjourned, John immediately headed to his office to catch up on grading. He had just put on his glasses when Sherlock appeared at the door. John frowned. It wasn’t his turn for the office.

Sherlock lingered for a moment, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. “My laptop died. Hard drive crashed. I need to do some work here.”

John hesitated, then inclined his head, indicating he could come in.

Sherlock moved quietly into the room and took a seat at his desk, logging into his account. They worked in silence, but John was highly aware of Sherlock, every atom electrically attuned to his presence.

He was a middle-aged man, for Christ’s sake, John chided himself. Why was he acting like a nervous teenager?

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I have another favor to ask.”

John looked up, surprised that Sherlock sounded unsure of himself.

“I’m working on a new article, but there are some medical aspects that aren’t in my realm of expertise. I was wondering…” Sherlock trailed off.

“Wondering what?”

“If you would review it for accuracy.”

John was wary. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. I doubt anyone else here is qualified.”

“Stamford could do it.”

“He’s away.”

John took off his glasses and toyed with them. “You suddenly trust me?”

“I trust that you’re an ethical person,” Sherlock grudgingly admitted.

John thought about it carefully, deciding to take the chance. “Alright. I could have a look at it over break.”

Relief flickered across Sherlock's face. “Thank you.” He paused. “I suppose I owe you a favor in return.”

John smiled. “Damn right you do.” He turned back to his computer, feeling a boost of confidence from the turn of events. Sherlock Holmes, coming to _him_ for help. Hell must be freezing over.

 

*******************

It was Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, when John was ready to return his edits to Sherlock. The town was practically shuttered, everyone off to visit friends and family and feast on turkey dinners.

John was bored, nothing but American football on television. Yet another custom he didn’t understand, nor did he want to. On a whim, he decided to ride his bike over to Sherlock’s place to hand-deliver the draft. He had nothing else to do, and some exercise would be good. If Sherlock wasn’t home, he’d leave the manuscript in his mailbox.

The evening air was cold on John’s face as he rode, his wool sweater and coat keeping him warm, but his bare hands were freezing by the time he arrived at Sherlock’s house. He’d never been inside before, but he’d looked up his address once, then ridden by several times, feeling like a stalker.

It was a house dating from the early 1800s, tall trees surrounding the property. The wooden clapboard siding was weathered gray with slate blue shutters, the two-story home now divided into two apartments. Sherlock rented the top floor.

As John mounted the steps of the porch, his stomach clenched. Maybe he should just turn back. But no, he was here and it would be a waste to go back now. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, then rang the doorbell marked underneath with a neatly penned S. Holmes.

He soon heard footsteps coming down the stairs, then the door swung open. Sherlock, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, stared at him.

“Sorry to come by without calling, but I was out for a ride…” John jabbed a thumb at his bicycle. “I… Er, I have your manuscript.”

He reached into the bag he’d slung over his shoulder and handed Sherlock the sheaf of papers held together with a black clip.

“Thanks.” Sherlock took the manuscript, still seeming confused to see him.

John stood on the porch, feeling like an idiot. “Okay... So let me know if you have any questions about my comments. I, um, I’d best be off.” He turned to go, wanting to crawl into a hole. What else had he expected?

“Wait,” Sherlock called out. He pushed the door open wider. “You might as well come inside for a bit.”

John looked up the staircase, enticed by the warm glow at the top of the landing. “Well, only for a few minutes.”

John followed Sherlock upstairs, the wooden steps worn smooth and polished by decades of use. A savory scent reached his nose as they entered the sitting room, something cooking in the oven.

“I’ll take your coat.” Sherlock held out his hand, and John shrugged off his jacket. As Sherlock hung his things up in the closet, John looked around, amazed at the overstuffed furniture, art nouveau-inspired wallpaper, overflowing bookshelves, and crackling fireplace. It was charmingly cozy.

“This is quite nice,” John said, running his hand over the curved back of a chair. “I’m a bit envious. My flat is so dull.”

“Most are,” Sherlock agreed.

“Who lives downstairs?”

“The landlady, Mrs. Turner. I rarely see her.”

John wandered over to a bookshelf to peruse the titles. Sherlock watched him for several moments, his hands in his pockets.

“I was just going to open a bottle of wine,” Sherlock eventually said. “Would you care for a glass?”

John liked this place very much and didn’t want to leave just yet. “You do owe me a favor, so yes.”

Sherlock smiled. “Then I suppose I ought to invite you to stay for dinner. I’ve got a chicken roasting. Not exactly the traditional turkey dinner, but there are peas and potatoes. And Mrs. Turner dropped off an apple pie.”

John sensed that neither one of them wanted to spend the holiday alone, two Englishmen adrift in a foreign land.

He smiled back. “That sounds delicious.”

John helped set the table while Sherlock put the finishing touches on dinner. They ate in the kitchen, at first rehashing work gossip, then moving on to Sherlock’s paper that John had reviewed.

By the time they were ready for pie, the conversation ventured into the personal.

“I’ve always wondered why you left the army.” Sherlock stabbed his fork through the golden crust of a hearty slice of apple pie. “Was it your shoulder injury?”

John’s surprise quickly turned to wariness. “How do you know about that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve noticed you tend to favor your left shoulder. Figure you tore a rotator cuff or something.”

John put his wine glass down. “I got shot.”

Sherlock looked up, his fork stopping halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it. “I’m sorry.”

John deflected his sympathy. “It happened. I was sent home, I moved on.”

Sherlock pushed an apple around on his plate. “But you miss it, that life.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. John stroked his beard, considering his reply. “Sometimes. The adrenaline… the heat of the moment, life or death decisions… it can be addicting.”

Sherlock held his gaze, studying him. “Once an addict, always an addict. I should know,”

John’s brows drew together, and Sherlock extended his forearm, revealing a nicotine patch. “I used to smoke. Still do, some days. Long before that, I used to get high. We’re all just recovering from one thing or another.”

John stayed silent, absorbing Sherlock’s words.

Sherlock drew his arm back. “Funny how criminology attracts types like us.”

“Academia isn’t exactly a war zone.”

“Isn’t it? Staking our intellectual territory, battling with words, attacking our enemies…”

John met his eyes, knowing Sherlock was describing their own acrimonious relationship. But now the schism between them was shifting and changing, narrowing. ‘Types like us,’ Sherlock had said. Thrillseekers forced to channel their impulses into safer avenues. They were more alike than he’d ever imagined.

John held Sherlock’s gaze. “So what is this?” he asked in a low voice, nodding at the bottle of wine, the dessert plates, the warm glow of the fire.

Sherlock picked up his wine glass, his eyes fixed on John over the rim. “A ceasefire.”

Hope bubbled up in John’s chest as they shared a slow smile, a fragile tendril of flirtation blooming between them. John picked up his glass and chimed it in a gentle toast against Sherlock’s, their fingers nearly touching.

He hadn’t felt so alive in years.


	4. Chapter 4

John found himself thinking about Sherlock so often — while trimming his beard, biking to class, making dinner, lying in bed before going to sleep (which inevitably led to some urgent wanking) — that he wondered if people could see the reason stamped on his face.

In fact, Mike did comment on it while they waited in line at Starbucks for a coffee.

“You’re in a good mood these days,” Mike said over the clanking of dishes and hiss of the espresso machine.

“Just looking forward to the end of the semester, I guess.” In truth, John was looking forward to seeing Sherlock in the office in a few minutes. They had disbanded the strict schedule and were now free to come and go at any hour they pleased.

Sherlock had been stopping by around ten o’clock the last few days, so John decided to surprise him with a latte this morning.

He had just set the cup on Sherlock’s desk when he arrived.

“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, unwinding his blue scarf from around his neck.

“It’s for you, a latte with two sugars and a dash of cinnamon. Hope that’s okay.”

Sherlock took a sip. “Perfect. Thank you.”

John smiled. “It’s my treat in return for the excellent Thanksgiving dinner.”

“But now I owe you again.”

John chanced another flirtation. “That’s the idea.”

Sherlock’s mouth crooked up at the corner. “Then I’ll buy you a drink some night after work.”

They shared another private smile, John’s gaze lowering to the temptingly tight buttons of Sherlock’s shirt straining over his well-defined chest, only to be interrupted by a student knocking at the door. “Excuse me, Professor Holmes? Can I talk to you about my grade?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes then waved the student in, and John left to let them speak in private. He nursed his coffee while looking out the window at the end of the hallway. Several inches of snow had fallen a few days ago, blanketing the campus in a sparkling cloak of white. He watched students rushing to class or strolling to the library, some walking hand in hand.

He envied them a little, feeling a bit nostalgic for his own youth. Those days were long gone, his hair now mostly silver, his right knee achey, his glasses a necessity for small print. But his heart was still young — and foolish enough to be completely smitten.

He wasn’t certain how Sherlock felt about him, but he’d been through enough relationships in his life to read the signs, and so far he was encouraged. Although...

Doubt skimmed across his confidence. Sherlock was unlike anyone else he’d ever met. He could be cold and distant, aloof and abrasive, unpredictable. But he could also be warm and witty, and when his smile reached his eyes, his whole face softened, lighting up the entire room.

John shook his head at how quickly he was getting carried away. He should take it slow, not get his hopes up, and be prepared for rejection, be it polite or rude. Their history was not exactly friendly, and a part of him feared that their recent truce was temporary. Maybe they were only getting along because they were both outsiders. Maybe once the year was over and they were back in England, they’d go right back to their bitter rivalry.

Maybe, he realized with a sinking feeling, Sherlock was already attached to someone back at Cambridge. Girlfriend? Seemed extremely unlikely. Boyfriend? Quite possibly. But Sherlock never mentioned anyone, never took furtive phone calls, didn’t have any photos on display… but who knew?

He took another sip of coffee, mulling over all the possibilities. Well, life was too short not to go after what you wanted. If he was going to be shot down in flames, it might as well be by Sherlock.

 

**************

A week later, John sat across from Sherlock in a high-backed wooden booth at a local bar. It wasn’t the sort of place students hung out — the drinks were too expensive and the lighting too low for good selfies — but faculty and staff gravitated to it for happy hour.

They both ordered local microbrews, an amber for John and a pale ale for Sherlock. They talked about the end of the semester, finals week just around the corner.

“Have any plans for winter break? John segued casually, leaning back in the booth.

“Nothing special.”

“Not going home to spend Christmas with your family?”

“I try to avoid family gatherings as often as possible.” Sherlock toyed with his glass. “My brother and I tend to disagree about most things. We’ve ruined more than one Christmas dinner.”

“I don’t get along with my sister, either.” John took a drink and wiped his mouth, sensing an opening for asking his next question. There was no subtle way to do this, so he forged ahead. “So, you're not flying back to see anyone else? Like a girlfriend? Boyfriend, maybe?”

Sherlock gave him a long look. “Neither,” he finally answered. “I’m staying here.”

“Good.” John said hastily. “I mean, I’ll be staying here, too.” He paused, then licked his lips. “I’m unattached, like you.” There, he’d said it. John held his breath and several painful seconds passed.

Sherlock stopped twiddling with his beer glass and leaned forward, his eyes on his hands. “John, I should tell you—”

“Look who’s here!” Mike’s voice boomed across the room and he beelined to their booth. “Just who I wanted to see.”

“Hey, Mike,” John greeted him weakly, silently cursing him for interrupting a crucial moment.

“I’ve been meaning to drop these off.” Mike plopped his satchel onto the table and dug through the contents, pulling out two red envelopes, handing them each one. “I’m hosting a little holiday party on Saturday. Just friends and neighbors, plus the usual suspects from the department. Hope you can make it.”

“Great, thanks,” John took the envelope and glanced at Sherlock, anxious to know what he was about to say. Sherlock’s expression was closed off, his eyes turned down toward the table.

“Mind If I join you?” Mike asked, all smiles.

John hesitated. “Actually, we—”

“I was just leaving,” Sherlock cut him off. “Loads of work to do. You two stay.” He slid from the booth and quickly donned his long black coat, throwing a few bills on the table. “Have a round on me.”

John appealed to him with his eyes, urging him to stay, but he turned away, vanishing toward the exit. John stared after him, dismayed.

“He’s in a hurry, isn’t he?” Mike remarked, oblivious to the conversation he had just stumbled into. “Anyway, the party should be good. I’m thinking of inviting Sarah from internal medicine — you know her, right?”

John nodded, not listening. Part of him wanted to chase after Sherlock, but another part felt crushed, unable to move. He stayed slumped in the booth, nursing another beer, dejected. Maybe he’d misread everything and scared Sherlock off. Maybe he just wasn’t interested. Maybe he’d just fucked it up.


	5. Chapter 5

The semester finally ground to an end. The tests were graded, the final grades submitted, and students had fled campus again, leaving John with time to catch up on housework and mundane errands. Thanks to mutual avoidance, he hadn’t seen Sherlock since his sudden departure from the bar.

When the day of Mike’s party rolled around, John forced himself to change from an old hoodie and trainers into black jeans with a blue shirt and gray suit jacket. He didn’t really want to go, but he didn’t want to spend another night moping at home alone, either. He’d struck out with Sherlock and should just move on.

He arrived about midway through the party, food and drinks flowing as fast as the conversation, spirits high. John wanted to let himself be swept up in the buoyant mood, but he felt flat.

He sipped at his drink and exchanged pleasantries, trying to have a good time. He eventually lingered by the buffet, deciding which dessert to sample.

“The red velvet cupcakes are a good choice.”

John glanced to his left to see who had spoken. He first saw the long brown hair, then the pretty eyes and warm smile, then recognized Sarah, a professor of internal medicine. They’d met while serving on the same curriculum development committee. He straightened up, extending his hand. “Sarah, how are you?”

“Good, thanks.” She shook his hand, her earrings sparkling as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Nice party, isn’t it?”

“Very nice.”

She cocked her head. “Can I ask you something kind of strange?”

John paused. “Sure, I guess.”

“It was you, wasn’t it, who had that argument with the other professor at a conference? That YouTube clip that went viral about two years ago?”

John felt himself turn red. He’d never live that down. “Um, yeah. It was at a panel session about communicating science to the public. In Barcelona.”

“Oh my God, you were fantastic,” Sarah laughed, touching his arm. “The other guy called your blog ‘warm paste for the masses,’ and you said his website was ‘boring cerebral masturbation that nobody wanted to read.’ That describes half the articles I have to review.”

John cracked a smile. “It wasn’t very professional of me.”

“No, but we all wish we could say what we’re really thinking out loud.” She grinned and picked up a cupcake. “Someone said the other professor is teaching here this year, too. Is that true?”

“We share an office.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

John shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“How’s that working out?”

John chose a chocolate truffle from the dessert tray, wondering how to answer. “It’s complicated.”

“I bet it is.”

As they continued to talk, John began to warm toward Sarah. She was smart and funny, and, if he wasn’t wrong again, she was flirting with him, smoothing her hair and occasionally touching his arm or shoulder as they spoke. Her attention was a balm on his bruised ego, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pursue her interest in return. But in the meantime, he was more than happy to enjoy her company.

They moved to a set of chairs in a corner, their conversation animated. She was asking him about Oxford when he glanced up, sensing that they were being watched. There, across the room, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and slim shoulders melting into the crowd. John stared, certain it had been Sherlock. Or maybe his imagination was just playing tricks on him. He ignored it, determined to focus on Sarah. 

The end of the night found him walking Sarah to her car, their breath puffs of white in the cold. She fished out her keys, then leaned against the driver’s door before unlocking it, looking up at John. “Well, I’m glad we had a chance to talk. I had a good time.”

“So did I.”

She pulled a pen out of her bag, then picked up John’s hand, turning it palm up. “Here,” she pressed the ink against his skin. “My number. Give me a call after the holidays?”

John smiled at her, then at the numbers scrawled on his palm. “I’d like that.”

“Me too.” She leaned up to place a chaste kiss on his cheek and he held her briefly, soft and sweet smelling. 

She pulled away and unlocked her door, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Oh, it’s so cold!” she shivered, laughing, turning on the engine.

John stood back, lifting his hand in a wave as he watched her drive away. He looked at his palm again with a mix of pride and melancholy before pulling on his gloves.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched into his coat and scarf, beginning his walk back home. He looked up, a smattering of stars visible in the clear night sky. He soon came to the campus and decided to make a quick detour to his office to pick up a book he’d forgotten. He’d have plenty time to read this weekend since he had no other plans. 

The building was dark and silent as he made his way down the hallway to his door. It was a bit eerie to be there alone so late, so he pulled out his keys and quickly unlocked the door. He flicked on his desk lamp, the pool of light flooding his desk. He shrugged off his coat and jacket, the steam radiator cranking out abundant dry heat. He sifted through stacks of papers in search of the book, trying to remember where he’d put it.

“Is she really your type?”

John spun around, adrenaline spiking through his body, prepared to fight. Sherlock stood in the doorway, his long coat making a dramatic silhouette.

“Jesus! Don’t creep up on people like that,” John snapped, his shoulders tense. He raked his hands through his hair, trying to calm his nerves. “So you were at Mike’s party,” he said accusingly. “Did you fucking follow me here?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, remaining in the doorway. “Are you going to call her?”

“Christ, did you spy on us?” John felt anger boiling up in his chest, stunned at Sherlock’s audacity. “How is this any of your business? Why are you even here?”

Sherlock moved into the room, shutting the door behind him, shedding his coat and tossing it over his chair. “We didn’t have a chance to finish our talk.”

“Right, because you bolted out of the bar as fast as you could, then disappeared for days.”

“I know.” Sherlock leaned against a wall, subdued. “I’ve been thinking. About us.”

“There is no us,” John growled, tired of Sherlock’s constant flipping between hot and cold. He’d had enough of his emotions being kicked around. 

Sherlock gazed at John, undeterred. “That old saying about there being a thin line between love and hate. That’s us. If I felt indifferent… I wouldn’t be here.”

John stared back at him, wrapping his head around Sherlock’s words. His anger dissipated, but he remained wary, unsure of what was happening.

Sherlock took a breath, then spoke. “That night at the bar, when you said you were unattached, I was trying to tell you--” he swallowed and looked away. “Trying to tell you that I’m not good at relationships. That I don’t want to get involved. But then as you were talking to Stamford, I realized you might be the first person I’d ever make an exception for. I panicked.”

John took this in, trying to sort out his tangle of feelings, amazed that Sherlock was admitting this to him. 

“And frankly, it pisses me off,” Sherlock continued, sounding more like his usual self. “You’re the last person I expected to be attracted to. It’s insane.”

John’s mouth involuntarily curved into smile. “I know the feeling.” He took a tentative step forward, drawn to Sherlock, not knowing if he should go any closer. 

Sherlock looked up at him, his face a mixture of defiance and vulnerability. “We’re supposed to hate each other,” he said, confused, angry, needy.

John took another step, his own confusion clarifying as he gazed at Sherlock, falling under the spell of those mesmerizing eyes and dark curls, that long neck, those plush lips. His inhibitions melted and he stepped closer, giving Sherlock the chance to move away. He didn’t. 

John moved a little closer, their bodies merging into the shadows of the office, the space between them charged with an intense energy.

His gaze roved from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth. “What are we going to do about it?” he murmured.

Sherlock’s breath quickened, his voice low. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” John leaned up, placing his hands lightly on Sherlock’s waist, and let his lips touch Sherlock’s, warm and soft. Sherlock inhaled shakily and John kissed him again, moving his fingertips to cradle Sherlock’s neck. He could feel Sherlock’s pulse racing, feel his hesitancy fading, his hands sliding up his shoulders, drawing him closer.

Oh, Sherlock’s mouth felt so good, his long fingers splayed against his back, the skin of his neck fragrant. This impossible moment was happening, their lips roaming, tasting, the phone number printed on John’s hand completely forgotten.

All their doubts were crumbling, a surge of heat and want rising in them, their mouths nipping, teasing, their touches growing rougher and more possessive. 

John ran his hands down Sherlock’s back, curving his palms under his arse. Sherlock groaned when John nudged his pelvis into his, grinding their heavy cocks between them, his tongue probing Sherlock’s hot mouth as they pressed against the wall. 

This was madness, rutting like two horny teenagers in a cleaning closet, but goddamn, it was exhilarating. John vaguely wondered if security cameras were installed anywhere in the office, but he dismissed it, knowing there wasn’t the budget for that level of monitoring. 

“God, I wanted this,” John murmured against Sherlock’s neck, relishing the sounds coming out of Sherlock’s throat, the bulge of his cock grazing against his thigh. He covered Sherlock’s mouth with his own, pulling away with a suggestive suck on his bottom lip. “I want you in my mouth.”

“Go down on me,” Sherlock gasped. “Do it.”

John fumbled at the zip of Sherlock’s trousers, their breaths ragged and panting, mouths smearing together until John finally freed buttons and zipper and pants. He sank to his knees, Sherlock’s cock stiff and weighty in his hand. 

He parted his lips, guiding the rosy crown into his eager mouth, the intimacy of salty, musky skin flooding his senses. His head was spinning, his lips and palette worshipping and praising the gorgeousness of Sherlock’s wet, pink cock, his hand coaxing, massaging him to plump, veiny beauty, his tongue lapping the tremulous beads of precome. Sherlock’s long fingers clutched into his hair, his soft moans growing more desperate. 

John craved this, the lust, the need, the wanton abandon, the grit under his knees and saliva running down his chin, Sherlock’s broken groan, fist against his lips, biting back his cry as he shuddered, coming hot and hard in John’s mouth.

It took awhile to float back to reality. John shifted to sit on the floor with his back against the wall, Sherlock pulling up his trousers and sinking down to sit next to him. They were silent, breaths still calming, the raditoring making a faint hissing sound. John rubbed his sore knee, casting a glance at Sherlock, not sure what to say. They’d crossed a line, and he didn’t know what came next.

Sherlock met his gaze, supplying the perfect answer. “Come back to my place,” he said softly. “I owe you another favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trashcan John Watson -- he'll take your number and promise to call, then shag the cute guy he's been pining after for ages.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the night was a blur: Sherlock’s bedroom, tousled sheets, bare skin, tangled limbs, mouths and hair and tongues and fingers, warm, sticky thighs, deep, sated sleep.

When John awoke the next morning, he squinted at his watch, then snuggled back into the pillow. It was only eight o’clock. Then it struck him — he was in Sherlock’s bed, thoroughly naked. He turned over, only to find the other half of the bed was empty.

John stretched out his hand, gently touching the faint hollow in the mattress where Sherlock had slept, not quite believing that their night together had really happened. He closed his eyes, savoring the memory of Sherlock’s body pressed against his, the way Sherlock had gazed at him through dark lashes, sucking and stroking him to a state of bliss.

He stretched and rubbed sleep from his eyes, lured into wakefulness by the smell of coffee. He glanced out the window, delighted by the sight of fat snowflakes drifting down from the sky. He was about to get up when Sherlock came into the bedroom holding two steaming mugs of coffee, a blue dressing gown tied carelessly around his waist.

“You take it black, if I remember correctly.” Sherlock handed him a mug, then crawled back under the sheets next to John.

They sipped their coffee, watching the snow fall, comfortably quiet, adjusting to their new status. It felt natural to be here, John thought, Sherlock’s flat somehow seeming much more like home than his own place. For all his claims that he wasn’t good at relationships, Sherlock was doing a hell of a job.

John finished his coffee and set his mug aside, making a quick side trip to the bathroom. When he returned to bed, he was seized with the urge to slide his hands past the fabric that gaped open at Sherlock’s chest, wanting to trace every muscle and bone with his fingers and mouth.

He slid his hand up Sherlock’s arm, drawing him closer, kissing him along the curve of his jaw, tilting his head to find his lips.

“Good morning,” he smiled, pleased at Sherlock’s warm response. He stroked Sherlock’s cheek, the stubble rough against the pads of his fingers.

John shifted his weight to find a better position, momentarily distracted by the smear of ink on his palm. He quickly closed his fist, remembering what it was. But he was too slow -- Sherlock had seen it as well. Sherlock circled John’s wrist with his fingers, lifting it up to inspect the blurry numbers.

“I’ll go wash it off.” John started to climb out of bed again, but Sherlock gripped his wrist tighter, pulling him back sharply.

“Don’t bother. We can take care of that here.” He bent his head to John’s palm, running his tongue along the ink in a hot, wet trail.

“Oh…” John breathed out, startled by the rawness of the gesture.

Sherlock licked John’s palm again, swirling his tongue in an elaborate pattern, then guided John’s hand between his legs, closing his damp palm around his cock.

“It’ll rub right off,” Sherlock murmured, leaning over to capture John’s mouth, his dressing gown sliding off one shoulder.

John was drowning in senses—their coffee-flavored kiss, the satiny sheen of the dressing gown, the heat of Sherlock’s cock in his hand, his own cock rising in salute—he groaned with contentment, rolling on top of Sherlock, pinning him under his body, his fantasy finally a satisfying reality.

“We should have declared a truce ages ago.” He nuzzled Sherlock’s ear, loving the way he stretched his neck in reaction.

“Mmm… in Barcelona?”

“Maybe,” John laughed, leisurely running his fingers from the root to the tip of Sherlock’s cock. “We could have used all that time fighting for something more entertaining.”

Sherlock hummed in pleasure, sinking his fingers into John’s hair. “We’re both idiots, wasting all that energy.”

“No one would believe this,” John grinned, “the two of us in bed.”

“Irene Adler would.”

“True.” John moved his hands to Sherlock’s hips and rolled onto his back, coaxing Sherlock to sit astride his thighs. He gazed up, marveling at the sight of him, hair a curly mop, dressing gown barely hanging on, eyes a fascinating blue-green, his skin pink from the burn of his beard.

“You’re gorgeous,” John sighed, sliding his hands over the smooth globes of Sherlock’s arse.

“I do like your beard,” Sherlock admitted, trailing his fingers along John’s bristly cheek, curling his other immense hand around both of their cocks, stroking them together. “Makes you look distinguished.”

“Not too old?” John bit his lip, his cock growing harder.

“Just old enough,” Sherlock grinned, a gleam in his eye, “for a daddy.”

John grinned back, wondering if that comment was anything more than a joke. He gripped Sherlock’s arse, thrusting slowly into his hand, enjoying the delicious friction of their cocks, caught up in the pleasure of the moment.

They lazed away another hour in bed, finally getting up to shower and eat a proper breakfast. John idly checked his phone, ignoring a few unimportant messages, realizing belatedly that it was Christmas Eve Day.

He checked the window. Snow was still coming down, the streets quiet except for a slow plow rumbling past. He should go home, give Sherlock some time alone in case he didn’t want him hanging around all day. He texted an Uber, standing up when his phone buzzed minutes later.

“I’m heading home,” John announced, picking his coat up from where it was draped over a chair. “I need to call my sister, wish her a happy Christmas. Do a few things at home”

Sherlock looked up from his phone. “Oh. I was hoping you might stay.”

John jumped at the chance. “I could come back later.”

“Bring a bottle of wine. A decent red to go with boeuf bourguignon.”

John smiled slyly, slipping his arms into his coat. “You going to feed me up again?”

Sherlock fixed him with a smoldering gaze. “In every way imaginable.”

John paused, suspended by the vast array of possibilities that the evening could hold in store. “Shall I stop by the pharmacy as well, pick up some...?” he hesitated, not wanting to ruin the moment by blurting out ‘lube and condoms.’

“Stocking stuffers?” Sherlock finished suggestively, raising an eyebrow.

John laughed, bending down to give Sherlock a long kiss. “I’m sure there’s a joke I could make about sliding down your chimney tonight...”

“Mmmm…” Sherlock smiled into a second kiss. “Christmas is suddenly much more appealing.”

John’s phone buzzed a second time and he reluctantly pulled away. “I’ll see you tonight.”

As he rode home, he felt warm, the taste of Sherlock’s kiss still on his lips. He marveled at how different everything was between them now, transforming from enemies to lovers in one semester. He silently thanked Mike Stamford for bringing him together with his arch enemy, serving as an accidental Cupid; Irene Adler for opening his eyes to his true desires; and Sarah for spurring Sherlock’s jealousy enough to get him to finally speak up.

John smiled to himself, his good mood influencing the generous tip he gave to the driver. He stepped out into the snow, letting a few flakes fall onto his face. He was looking forward to the evening, and the next day, and the weeks ahead. What happened when they returned to England… it was too soon to tell, but he had a feeling that things would work out. Call it a sprinkle of intuition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And -- cue happy ending! Thanks for coming along on this little romp!


End file.
